Death is a Bargain (A Kate Kennedy Mystery Book 3) (15 page)

Thirty-One

Marlene cornered Suzanna
in the ladies’ room. A most impressive loo, located off the courtyard in the right wing of the U-shaped house. It reminded Marlene of the elegant ladies’ room in the
Waldorf
Astoria, which she’d ranked number one in New York City, after the Plaza moved theirs so far away from the lobby that no lady could find it. The Algonquin—though, God knows, getting down those narrow stairs became more of a challenge each year—Saks Fifth Avenue, and Lord and Taylor’s completed her list of the best public bathrooms in midtown Manhattan.

While Marlene hated to credit Sean with even a modicum of good taste, someone had designed a classy john for Chez Cunningham. The loo held four
stalls
with cherry-wood doors, each equipped with its own
sink
,
flattering pink lighting, and an excellent supply of toiletries.

Feeling as if mosquitoes had invaded her French twist and flown down the deep vee neckline of her A-line dress, she’d fled to the ladies’ room to brush away bugs and to repair and respray her platinum twist.

She had the damage under control and was sitting in a comfortable club chair before returning to the creepy wake, when a stall door opened and Suzanna exited.

The cool brunette nodded, saying, “Hello,” then turned away to appraise herself in a full-length brass mirror.

Marlene thought, what’s not to like? Suzanna exuded more class than the ladies’ room. A tall, lean body, tight stomach, and compact butt. Plus Audrey Hepburn’s cheekbones and her great hair style from
Wait Until Dark.
As usual, Mama Jordan was dressed simply—and expensively—in a white silk shirt and crisp black linen trousers. How come the heat and the bugs hadn’t wilted Suzanna? Were women like her sweat-proof?

Jealousy made Marlene go for the jugular.

“Tell me, Suzanna, do you believe that business with your brakes was an attempt to murder you? That you were meant to be the killer’s first victim?” She sounded like a soap opera drama queen, but couldn’t contain herself. “Who tampered with your car? Who wanted you dead? If you can answer that question, we’d know who the killer is, wouldn’t we?” Sometimes Marlene hated herself, but this was kind of fun.

S
uzanna
spun around, eyes wide. “Are you suggesting a serial killer?” Could that indignation be hiding fear?

Marlene took guilty pleasure in commanding the woman’s full attention. And she suspected Suzanna had considered and rejected a serial killer theory long before this. Maybe the ice queen had jimmied her own brakes to set herself up as a victim, then went on to murder Whitey, Carl, and Freddie.

Suzanna sank into a matching club chair across the lounge from Marlene’s. “You could be right.”

Marlene, unprepared for agreement and having no clue where Suzanna was heading, said nothing.

“Whitey checked out those brakes himself, and concluded they’d been tampered with, that someone had wanted me or Olivia dead. My daughter often drove my car, you know.” Sincere. Eager to share. Concerned, but not frightened. A brave mother protecting her daughter? A brazen murderer protecting herself?

“A serial killer?” Marlene spoke before editing. Suzanna shrugged. A graceful gesture.

“Maybe. Or perhaps the killer only wanted me or my poor Olivia dead—though I can’t fathom why—but then, in a kind of domino effect, had to get rid of Whitey, Carl, and Freddie because each of them had learned his identity.”

Marlene caught the masculine pronoun. She pictured a glass ball containing a winter scene with small figures in holiday attire gathered in front of a miniature house. A ball that filled with snowflakes when you shook it. Not many of those for sale in South Florida, but Suzanna’s snow job would blanket one of those balls like the blizzard of ’47.

“Perhaps,” Marlene agreed, keeping a straight face.

“A crazy person,” Suzanna said, warming up to her theory, transparently pleased to be sharing her conclusions with Marlene.

“Why a crazy person?”

Suzanna’s mouth formed an O, and she raised her brows. “Well, the killer must be crazy, Marlene. Why would a sane person want to harm either me or my daughter?”

“So we’re looking for a madman?” Marlene prodded. “Anyone we know?”

“I’ve heard enough.” A startled Marlene swung her head around in time to see the door to the last stall open. Linda stormed out, waving a roll of toilet paper. “You two playing cat and mouse have my knickers in a twist and my bowels in an uproar.”

Suzanna gasped. “You witch, always sneaking around, spying on us.” Marlene felt like a tennis spectator, her neck swinging from Linda to Suzanna. The latter had gone pale. Her posture-perfect shoulders sagged.

“If you and your frump of a daughter weren’t up to no good, you wouldn’t care who spied on you. Not that I ever did such a thing, you snooty, over-the-hill broad.” Linda threw the roll of toilet paper. It flew like a football past three stalls, into the lounge, and smacked the right side of Suzanna’s head. “Used to play darts. I once won in the local pub’s women’s division. Still have great aim, don’t I?” Suzanna screamed, then flung her purse.

It fell far short of its target, who chortled. “Missed by a mile. No muscle left in that skinny old arm.”

Jeez! This was too much. Marlene moved in between them. “Ladies, please.”

“That British tart slept her way through two countries. When Whitey dumped her, she freaked out,” Suzanna screeched like a shrew. A vein throbbing in her forehead appeared ready to pop. All resemblance to Audrey Hepburn had vanished. “You sneaked back in, didn’t you, Linda? After we’d all left the bathroom, you returned, knowing he was drunk, and you killed my poor Whitey.” Damn! So they’d all been in the bathroom while Whitey soaked in his tub for the last time. Marlene, no prude, felt queasy.

“He wasn’t your Whitey. He always loved me. You were just one of his diversions. Like your daughter, Olivia.” Linda’s laugh was cruel. “Maybe you’re the one who came back. You had a key, did you? We’ll never know for sure how you got in, will we? You shot Carl because he’d witnessed you going back in, or spotted you coining out for a second time, after you’d killed Whitey.”

“You’re mad!” Suzanna, stronger than she looked, shoved Marlene out of her way.

“And you killed Freddie because photographs don’t lie.” Linda sounded triumphant. “His evidence would have sent your bony bum to death row.”

Thirty-Two

Kate danced back a step so she could meet Sean’s olive eyes. “I’ve narrowed down the suspects.”

He tightened his grip on her waist. Conscious of the less-than-firm skin in her midsection—too many bagels with cream cheese and not enough sit-ups—she decided she didn’t care what Creepy Cunningham thought, then realized she didn’t give a fig what any man thought. The resulting sense of freedom made her laugh.

“Something strike you as funny, Kate?” Sean shook his jowls. “Triple murder is nothing to laugh about.”

“Just rejoicing in newfound freedom.” Kate grinned, feeling good about herself.

“You’re a strange woman.” Sean’s words wavered between flirtation and fear.

She nudged him in the right direction. “You’re in the top four.”

Jocko sang, “‘Waltz me lightly, hold me tightly.’” A smooth tenor baritone.

Sean stumbled and missed a beat, his heel coming down on her toe.

“Sorry, Kate,” Sean said. “You startled me. Innocent men often react that way.” She could feel his clammy hand through the silk fabric of her jacket. “Why do I deserve to be in your top four?” He tried a light touch, but sounded strained; his voice had lost its lilt.

“Oh…”
She spun out, twirled, and returned to his arms. “Let me count the motives. To get your hands on photographs that would have confirmed suspected elephant abuse in the Cunningham Circus. To shut up Whitey, the man who’d called the Humane Society. To remove an eyewitness to Whitey’s final visitors and the photographer who’d shot both the abuse pictures and those visitors.” Sean smelled of rancid sweat, and he was dancing faster than the music, spinning her in wider and wider circles.

“Let’s move on to opportunity.” Kate felt dizzy but confident, and, as she spoke, her conviction that Sean had murdered the three men grew stronger. “You were at Whitey’s on Sunday night, and you were in the circus yesterday afternoon when Carl and Freddie were shot.”

“Don’t bother with means, Kate. The police don’t agree with you. Detective Carbone hasn’t any evidence—or any reason—to arrest me.” Sean spat as he spoke. “Indeed, quite the contrary. I’ve proven to the detective’s satisfaction that I was never alone with Whitey on the night he died. Not even for a moment.”

“Was it a conspiracy, Sean?” The words spilled out. “Like
Murder on the Orient Express!
Did all four of you plot to kill Whitey?”

Sean whirled her around so fast she lost her balance. He lurched for her as she started to fall, keeping her upright, but twisting her elbow. “You look tired, Kate. Why don’t you go home, get into bed, and curl up with Agatha Christie?”

“May I cut in?” Nick tapped Sean’s shoulder.

Kate hadn’t seen Nick’s approach, and his question made her partner squirm.

“Certainly,” Sean said, as his wet jowls shook in a negative nod. “However, Mrs. Kennedy was just leaving.”

She glared at Sean. “No, I’m not going anywhere. I have a few things I need to discuss with Detective Carbone.” Giving Nick a weary smile, she moved out of Sean’s arms and into his.

The band segued from waltz tempo to a fox trot, playing “The Second Time Around.”

“Mrs. Kennedy, you never know when to quit, do you?” Nick’s tone was critical, but she thought she saw a hint of admiration in his eyes. “So what do you need to discuss?”

He led well. Who’d have believed such a heavy man would be so light on his feet, especially after hurting his knee earlier that day?

“Sean
thinks
he’s home free. That they all are. He’s so smug, it’s sickening. Nick, the four of them
were
in the bathroom with Whitey.” Kate licked her lips, dry as the desert. She must look like death. “One must have come back, right?”

“It never occurred to you that I might have thought of that, Kate?”

“Well,” she hesitated, embarrassed, then plunged on, ignoring his comment.
“I…er…
there’s another possibilty. It could be a conspiracy. Maybe they all killed him.”

His booming laughter caught her by surprise. “And maybe Sean’s right. Maybe you should go home and curl up with Christie.”

The teasing tone and its accompanying pat just below her waist reminded her of Charlie. She resisted a sudden impulse to kiss Nick’s cheek. How tired was she? Had she lost her mind?

“What about the other two murders?” Nick asked. “Would they be part of this conspiracy theory?”

She shook her head. “I guess you’re right. Every time I think I’ve figured something out this mess moves in a new direction. It’s just so frustrating.”

“It’s not your job, Kate.”

“I need a drink.” She wanted to get away from him, to go home and crawl into bed alone, and forget about her fleeting desire to kiss Nick Carbone.

He escorted her over to the closest bar, ordered her white wine, and said, “Drink up, find Marlene, and get out of this circus.” Then he turned and walked away.

Kate downed half the wine in one gulp. It warmed her throat and would no doubt jumpstart her acid reflux, but she didn’t care, considering it medicine. As the alcohol soothed her nerves, she looked around the music-filled courtyard, searching for Marlene. A crowded dance floor, with many more guests sitting and eating at the round tables circling it or standing three deep at the bars, chatting.

Where had Marlene gone? Should she be concerned? Well, a killer was on the premises. Dancing, eating, chatting, or God forbid, alone somewhere with Marlene. Yes, damn it, she had reason to be worried.

“Mrs. Kennedy, have you seen my mother?” Olivia Jordan had been designated as one of Marlene’s interviewees. The young woman sounded stressed and, putting worry on hold, Kate seized the moment.

“I was about to ask if you’d seen Marlene.” Kate tried not to grimace as the wine turned to acid. “Maybe they’re together.” She hoped not. Or, if Marlene and Suzanna were together, she hoped they were still in the courtyard. Kate and Marlene had promised each other they wouldn’t wander off with any of the four suspects.

“May I have a gin and tonic, please?” Olivia’s soft, refined voice, with its prep-school diction, drew a prompt response from the bartender.

“Lemon or lime, miss?”

“Neither, thanks.” Olivia pushed thick dark hair away from her forehead. A pretty face, too seldom noticed because of her heavy body and shy manner. “I don’t think they’re together, Mrs. Kennedy. My mother can’t stand your sister-in-law.”

Some interviewer. Olivia had given Kate a perfect opening, but left her speechless.

“I didn’t mean to offend you.” Olivia laughed, as if that were exactly what she’d intended to do. “The list of people mother doesn’t like is legion. Her competition in the corridor ranks among the top five.” She flushed, giving her pale skin a pretty pink glow. “Of course, the murders have reduced the number of vendors on mother’s would-prefer-to-live-without list.”

Kate gulped, but recovered her voice, and lobbed two questions. “How did you and your mother come to the corridor? Have you been selling there for a long time?”

“Over a decade. When I wasn’t away at school, I spent all of my teenage and college years hawking Miriam Haskell jewelry.” Olivia didn’t try to hide her bitterness. “All the corridor vendors are—well, were—lifers.”

“Do you know what made your mother choose the
C
unningham
corridor?” Kate persisted. “I think Suzanna would have had her choice of almost any location in the flea market.”

“Mrs. Kennedy, why do you think everyone would have wanted my mother? Because she was so beautiful or because she had those hot Haskell retro pins and earrings to sell?”

Smarting, Kate said, “A little of both, I guess.”

“Truth is often a mixed bag, isn’t it?” Olivia sighed. “Mother was a shoo-in for the corridor. She’d been sleeping with Sean Cunningham.”

Kate felt her jaw drop.

“Their odd-couple romance bloomed for another ten years, until two months ago when my mother—and old enough to be his mother—fell in love with Whitey.”